


company.

by krysalla



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:18:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krysalla/pseuds/krysalla
Summary: You had no intention of tonight going like this. In your head, you were going to drive everyone home, no matter how much they wanted to stay and no matter what state of drunkenness they were in, you weren’t going to let them walk around Bludhaven inebriated. You were going to shower and wash the stink of the nightclub off of you and promptly go to bed and hope to forget about the whole experience by the morning. Instead, your fingers are curled into a stranger’s hair and his hands grip for purchase of the material of your dress. His company was not in the plan at all, but more than welcome.***After your friends drag you out for a night out, you meet Dick Grayson and do something you would normally never do.





	company.

**Author's Note:**

> based on two prompt requests i got on tumblr. "played from the bedside" + “rise and shine, sweet thing”

You’re not sure how to feel about being out, being pushed out of the comfort of your own home and the position you’d taken on the couch, covered in blankets and slowly making your way through a tub of ice cream, watching a documentary on bears and forget all about the past three weeks. The club is packed at your friends can hardly be seen over the sea of people that surround them on the dance floor. The music—fast beat and loud enough to leave a ringing in your ears—makes you sick, but it could also be the nachos you’ve been picking at settling with the ice cream.

Your friends are laughing and dancing with each other, but you can’t bear to be around them. All you wanted was to be alone. They thought going out would be good for you as long as you were the designated driver.

“You okay?”

You pick up another chip, pushing as much of the toppings as you could get on it. You don’t want to talk to anyone, especially not a stranger in a club, but he’s persistent, asking again, and the genuine concern in his voice catches your attention. 

He’s a beautiful man, dark, messy curls and a boyish smile that holds a little higher on the left side of his face, soft and small scars litter his face and hands and the tiniest bit of his collarbone that you can see, blue eyes that are muddied by the dim lighting. His tan skin reflects the neon lights nicely. He was made for bright and obnoxious colors. He’s too beautiful to be talking to you when the club is filled with women who could be models. You never thought yourself wholly unattractive but you knew there are prettier people, much prettier than yourself, out there. Maybe this whole experience is supposed to humble you. You scoff at yourself and the man furrows his brow.

“You look familiar.”

“Just have one of those faces. I think I woulda remembered seeing you.” You hate that what you said could potentially feed this guy’s ego. He doesn’t puff his chest out or even begin to brag. He just settles across from you at the high top and sets his beer down. Even though he sat without an invitation, you can’t find it in yourself to be mad at him. He stares you down and you try to look everywhere except for him. You can’t take the scrutiny and the heavy eyes and why on earth is he staring at a stranger so intently? He should know better, anyone who had some decency should.

“You done?” 

He blinks and clears his throat. There’s a spark of recognition in his eyes that he quickly extinguishes. If he does recognize you, it’s obvious that he doesn’t want you to know where from.

* * *

He remembers exactly where he saw you. Three weeks ago, give or take a few days; you were being mugged and he intervened. You only stood by, stunned, and when he passed you back your purse, you snatched it out of his hands and ran in the opposite direction, out of the alley and down the street and never to be seen again, well, until tonight.

Maybe you didn’t like his discowing suit. Everybody else had a problem with it.

“Sorry.” He grabs his bottle of beer and smiles, hoping that it will ease any of the awkwardness he undoubtedly created.

You shrug your shoulders in response. Dick can’t help but notice the way the neon pink and blue lights highlight the curves of your face, soft and not at all harsh in the way he expected under harsher lights. The darkness of the room must balance it out.

He bites his lip and you look up from your plate of half-eaten nachos, “So, what brings you here?”

“Maybe you did.” You swirl your finger around the rim of your glass. You must be the designated driver, what other reason could someone have for drinking water in a bar? He pushes his beer towards you. You tilt your head and smile at him, “I don’t drink beer.”

“Then what do you drink?”

“Anything but beer.”

He brings his beer back to his side of the table and looks around briefly, looking through the sea of people for his friends. Donna is arm wrestling Kory, yelling loudly at each other with humor lacing their voices, while Victor films and Joey smiles wide, his arm slung around Raven’s shoulders. They won’t miss his disappearance. 

“Can I buy you a drink that’s not beer?”

You turn in your seat and hop out of it, “I thought that was implied?”

* * *

You had no intention of tonight going like this. In your head, you were going to drive everyone home, no matter how much they wanted to stay and no matter what state of drunkenness they were in, you weren’t going to let them walk around Bludhaven inebriated. You were going to shower and wash the stink of the nightclub off of you and promptly go to bed and hope to forget about the whole experience by the morning. Instead, your fingers are curled into a stranger’s hair and his hands grip for purchase of the material of your dress. His company was not in the plan at all, but more than welcome.

He was easy to talk to. You clicked with him like you had been friends all your life, sliding into place with ease. There hadn’t been a stop in the conversation except when you asked him to dance. You danced with him even if your body and whatever was left of your common sense told you no, that you, under any circumstances should be allowed to dance. It’s been easy though, chest to chest, with music blaring in your ears and the strobe lights almost blinding you under their intensity but still, you were able to stick with him. 

You’d forgotten about your friends by then, enraptured by the man with the pretty smile and honey-coated voice. You let him order you a drink or two and it had been a while since you drank or you’re just trying to protect yourself from the embarrassing idea that you’re a lightweight and cannot for the life of you handle your liquor. The stranger—Dick, his name is Dick, how outdated and old-fashioned—moans when you pull his hair a certain way, you nails lightly scratching over his scalp and a quick tug to a small handful when his lips travel up from your jaw to place a kiss beneath your ear and it sobers you up. It’s delightful how easily he moans for you.

“Please,” he groans. 

You fumble with your doorknob, desperately trying to fit the key inside before one of your neighbors wakes up and decides to poke their head out. How embarrassing; you still couldn’t even look the neighbor across from your apartment in the eye after calling her by the wrong name. If they were to see you like this, chest pressed up against your door and a man with an open button-up rutting against you, you would have to pack up and move halfway around the world and maybe even change your name.

He grows impatient and holds out his hands for your keys and with a calm, steady hand, he easily unlocks your door. It goes back to the shaking the moment you slam the door shut with your foot and press him against a wall, clawing at the buttons that you hadn’t been able to undo in the backseat of the musty cab you took.

It’s sweet the way his hands come up, sliding under the thin straps of your dress and push them down. His hands, calloused and rough, are gentle as they run up and down your shoulders, reverent at the soft skin. It’s almost too much to handle, a simple touch and you are already melting beneath him. It really has been too long since you’ve allowed another person to touch you, always too fearful of what could happen, what they would think when clothes were shed and there was nothing left for you to hide behind.

“Touch me.” It’s an easy request, but his voice shakes and your hands suddenly don’t know where to start. You’re overthinking it and the expanse of his skin is now too intimidating. Not even moments ago you had been planning on where to start, how much you wanted to touch him and run your fingers over the scars that knit across him in a deranged and nonsensical pattern. You see the scars and it all stops. What kind of man has them? Why does such a beautiful man have them? And for a moment, you consider criminal activity; after all, Bludhaven is riddled with it. He must be dangerous. But he ducks his head when your fingers curl into the waistband of his pants, pressing yourself closer to him. He moans and he no longer seems so dangerous to you.

You throw all caution to the wind when you grab his chin and pull him in for a harsh kiss.

* * *

The bed squeaks beneath your combined weight, protesting at the sudden change and how you had practically pounced on him. You’re both in nothing, stripped in a hurried fashion and tripping over your clothes in the process of getting into your bed, and he looks at you in awe. It only fuels your confidence.

His hands are hesitant on you, learning and watching how you react when he touches you. Once he breaches that hesitancy, once he learns what a sweep of his thumb over your bottom lip does to you, he smiles and his touches become insistent. He touches you with fervor, pushing himself up to kiss across your collarbone.

You almost forget what you’re doing when he presses hot kisses to a sensitive patch of skin. It drives you into a frenzy, pulling his hair and dragging your nails down his back. He responds so nicely with a moan and a roll of his hips.

“Feels good.”

“Yeah?”

He looks up at you with hooded eyes and a smile drifting on his lips. You’ve hardly done a thing to him and he’s already a mess. Dick nods.

You’ve missed the touch of another and he knows it. It’s written across your face plain as day, and with the smooth ripple of muscles and scarred flesh, he could easily overpower you, could switch positions and take control, but he doesn’t. You would thank him for it if you could get the lump in your throat to go away. You swallow thickly. You’ll deal with it morning come and he’s long gone from your bed, with all traces of him vanished. You can confront it all when your friends call you and yell at you for ditching them and put all your effort into making it up to them even if you don’t want to.

Purple neon leaks in through your blinds, illuminating his silhouette. He truly is the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in your life and it nearly knocks you off your feet. That’s the reason you didn’t scoff and brush him off like you had earlier in the night when other men tried to approach you. Of course, his kindness and cheesy sense of humor had been another pro, but ultimately, it was his beauty. How shallow you are. 

Dick kisses you, bringing back your full attention to him and that fire is alight in you, the whole purpose of his company comes back and you push him down by the shoulders even as his lips try to find yours again. Maybe he longs for another’s touch too.

You grind against him. You’d almost been embarrassed about how wet you had gotten just from Dick’s kisses and groping in the cab, but he kissed you a little harder and the hand that drifted between your thighs only found its purpose. He was all too pleased with himself. The smirk had vanished the moment you cupped him over his pants.

“Move up,” you tap his shoulder and raising your weight onto your knees, “Come on.”

Dick scrambles to put his head on the pillows, hands reaching out for your hips. You let him grab you. You let him kiss the palm of one of your hands while the other reaches into the bedside table drawer, rooting around for a condom. Dick is allowed to kiss your fingertips and pull two fingers into his mouth, sucking softly and looking up at you as you shudder against him. You may have the lead here, but he plays unfair and he plays it well. 

You plant your weight onto his thighs and withdraw your fingers from his mouth. He just stares at you, watching the ease of your movements. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. He has the same look as every teenage boy in your health class when you and your classmates had to practice putting condoms on bananas. He doesn’t seem to notice your breaking composure. 

You toss the wrapper on the ground and it pulls him out of his trance.

He smiles and you can’t stand the way he grabs the back of your head with such delicacy and flips you onto your back, making sure you land softly against the mattress. He kisses your cheek and holds your right hand with his left. It makes you want to sob. Nobody has ever treated you with such tenderness. His eyes shine in the dark and you hope he can’t tell that whatever shine in your eyes is not from any impending tears. You want nothing more than to hold him a little closer.

He presses you into the mattress and rocks his hips, thrusts becoming a little more confident as he finds a way to steady his weight and gauge your reaction.

“Are you good? Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” you cup his cheek with your free hand and surge up to him. His lips are hot on yours, a little dry and the faintest taste of whiskey on them, “More than okay.”

Your free hand grapples with his shoulder, nails leaving small crescent moon shaped indents from the anticipation that’s been building in your stomach since the moment you walked out of the bar with him. It’s an encouragement and you hope he interprets it as such. You’re not sure if your mouth would be able to work out any words of affirmation.

He doesn’t make a move, only stares. Dick has a nasty habit of doing this and each time it makes you squirm. He has the audacity to look bemused by your sudden need to move. 

“What are you doing?”

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” he licks his bottom lip, “It’s ‘cause you’re beautiful.”

You blink. It’s so hard to accept anything less than what he had said, even a simple compliment on a new outfit or hairstyle is enough to get you to shy away and stutter out an appreciative thank you and a rush to return the compliment. Why is it that from him, a stranger, it is so easy to accept? Why is it so easy to believe him? You don’t want to. Not now. Just another reason for you to get attached to a man you won’t see again after tonight.

With your free hand, you grab his chin and tilt his head up with ease, baring his throat to you. You kiss what you can reach, trailing down to his Adam’s apple and back up to his lips, “You don’t need to lie. You’ve already got me naked. I thought it was clear that we are gonna fuck?”

“I’m not lying.”

You nod. Why fight him on it? He does make you feel beautiful in this moment, truly beautiful for the first time in your life. He may not mean it but you’ll take it. 

He lines himself up with your entrance and pushes in slowly. You throw an arm around his neck, pulling him close enough to feel his hot breath fan against your cheek and neck. He’s overwhelmingly hot against you; it makes your stomach churn and toes curl. The fan that sits on your dresser couldn’t combat the heat that only grows. 

The first little bite on your shoulder surprises you and him. Apologies fall from him, cut off by both of your moans and the obscene sound of his skin against yours. You don’t mind though, it wasn’t hard and you could easily forget about it especially when he presses loving kisses to the spot on your shoulder he bit. 

“I- oh, Richard.”

He stops his thrusts and places his weight back on his forearms. His hair is matted against his forehead with sweat and his cheeks burn with heat, “Why are you calling me Richard?”

“It feels weird,” you take a deep breath and wriggle your hips, trying to gain some friction, “to call you Dick when your dick is inside of me.”

He grins, resting his forehead against yours and resumes his thrusting, “I don’t think it’s weird. Weirder that you’re calling me Richard.”

“Shut up, dick.” You bite your lip to stop yourself from smiling at the absurdity of it, but you lose the battle and a highly unattractive laugh comes out and a snort. 

He doesn’t mind. He laughs and says, “Never heard that one before.”

“Oh you haven’t?” you tease. 

“Never.” Dick continues pumping his hips and picks up his pace. 

You meet his thrusts, hoping for just the smallest bit of friction where you need it most and when you don’t get it, you take it into your own hands. As good as he was making you feel, it wasn’t enough and you burn at the thought of telling him. You can’t be nitpicky.

One of his hands follows yours and rests beneath yours, “Show me.”

You guide him, rubbing circles around your swollen nub. Slowly, the careful circles you lead turn sloppy as you moan and press your head into the pillows with eyes closed as you feel pleasure spark throughout you in shaking limbs and heavy breaths. You withdraw your hand when you realize he hasn’t stopped and picked up the work. You wonder momentarily how he can focus on the two actions without tripping up. It becomes too hard to think, to focus on breathing. Your toes curl and you arch your back to meet his torso as you reach your climax.

His thrusts become hurried and irregular to find his own pleasure. You hitch a leg over his hips, pressing the heel of your foot into the small of his back, urging him to find his own. You’re exhausted from him, ready to lie next to him and pretend for a little while that this isn’t a one night stand and gain some time back on your clock for missing human contact. Dick groans, hips stuttering and hands gripping for purchase on the sheets before coming to wrap them around your hands. He digs his nails into your knuckles and with one more thrust, he comes too. he shudders and falls against your chest with a heavy thump and the clash of his forehead against your chin.

He rubs his forehead and mumbles out another apology. You can only laugh. He’s got nothing to apologize for. It’s one of your best sexual encounters, but you won’t tell him that.

“You apologize too much.”

You have to hold back a whimper when he pulls out, already missing him as he disposes of the condom. You wipe the sweat off your forehead, pull the comforter up and curl up with your head pressed into the pillow. You don’t want to watch him leave and realize that it’s done.

But he surprises you. You don’t hear the rustling of clothes or the clink of his belt or the sound of laces snap from tension. Instead, the bed dips beside you and the covers move as he situates himself against your back with an arm slung over your waist.

“Is this okay?”

His lips are on your neck, just faintly pressing against your skin, and his grip on you is loose but it still makes you burn up in joy, “More than.”

* * *

You wake up with a start, gasping and heart going about a million beats per minute from the rude awakening of Dick’s alarm. The loud ringing of xylophone could be enough to shake the entire building and you have to wonder momentarily as you dive out of bed searching for the damned thing, why he has an alarm set at one-thirty in the morning. You fumble, hands searching clothing that litter the floor. You can’t tell in the dark what’s your and what’s his, not even the neon billboard advertising some new kind of weight loss shake across the street from you helps.

Finally, it turns off, but not of your doing. You hear the boxspring moan as Dick shifts on your bed.

“What are you doing on the floor?”

That’s a good question. Of course, his phone was on the bedside table, why wouldn’t it be? Why would he carelessly just drop it on the floor like he did his clothing? 

“Why is your alarm so loud?”

“Deep sleeper. Sorry, forgot to turn it off.” Dick stretches his arms over his head and yawns. Shouldn’t he be leaving or trying to sneak out? Maybe that’s what the alarm is for. It could be a great system for gaining notches in his belt without worrying about the awkward mornings that follow or a girl getting hung up and thinking about more than a one night stand. Too bad the alarm was so loud. That’s the only thing you’ll be able to think about.

“You wanna grab breakfast?”

You furrow your brows and look at the clock on your dresser pointedly, “You do know what time it is, right?”

He laughs and he drags you back down under a wave of appreciation—adoration even—for him, “I mean later. Like seven or eight.”

“It’s not a consolation prize for when you leave?”

“No. I wanna get breakfast with you.”

You accept his offer with a calculated answer, forcefully and with a bitter taste in your mouth. Hopefully, he doesn’t pick up on it. It’s not like you to agree to something that can hurt you, it isn’t like you to sleep with a stranger. It must be something in the air or a full moon or some kind of astrology you don’t understand. Whatever the force is, it’s pulling you in a direction you never thought you’d go.

You let him pull you in his arms, let him press his head into your chest and kiss the swell of your breasts. Those kisses, as innocent as they could be for their placement, turn heated and open-mouthed, and a hunger in his eyes creeps back in and the heat returns and pools in your belly when he pushes himself lower, lower, lower, until his shoulders rest between your spread legs and his mouth finds you.

* * *

He greets you when you wake up with a soft smile and a tender gaze. For a moment, you can pretend that this isn’t a one-time thing and that you’ll have plenty more mornings like this.

“Rise and shine, sweet thing,” he says, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “Breakfast is calling our names.”

You yawn and bliss rains down on you because you had nearly forgotten about his promise of breakfast but he remembered. Maybe you don’t need to imagine future mornings like this. He could be dangerous, he could have been in an accident, but those things are not mutually exclusive. You can take it either way because his company might be worth it.

He moves off the bed, quickly collecting his clothes and dressing. Dick flashes smiles and funny faces at you, fixing his unruly curls with his hands, trying to sit them still and not stick up in the worst places, but gives up as you finally start to move. You tug on sweats and the juxtaposition of who you and he are dressed nearly makes you choke. 

“Don’t you want sweats?”

His pants and shirt are littered with creases and he’s buttoned his shirt wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. The only move he makes is for his wallet, phone, and his keys, “I’m good as is.”

* * *

When you come home you wipe all traces of the night’s events away, picking up fallen decor and fixing photos that hang on the wall. You wash the sheets and make your bed, happy that the smell of sweat and cum doesn’t ooze from the fabric. Your skin is rubbed clean of any traces of his touch—but you can’t get the feel of his kiss off your lips—and when you collapse on your bed, inhaling the fresh scent of your sheets, a strip of blue catches your attention. 

On your bedside table is a slip of blue paper, torn from the corner of a bigger piece of paper. In neat handwriting are a phone number and his name. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
